


Kettle Politics

by kyaticlikestea



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: AU-modern setting, Arthur's POV, Closeted Character, Established Relationship, Humour, M/M, Minor character death (Uther) pre-narrative, Morgana is a BAMF, Nimue isn't a nice stepmother, Slice of Life, Uther was a bit of a tool, and gets buried in France, but your boyfriend will still want to go, funerals aren't plus one events, so that's nice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-29
Updated: 2012-05-28
Packaged: 2017-11-06 05:14:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/415092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyaticlikestea/pseuds/kyaticlikestea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'“I’m pretty sure my stepmother is going to try and set me up at the funeral.” </p><p>The silence that followed was really rather uncomfortable. He’d done it this time. He should have just told Merlin months ago that his parents were completely oblivious to the true nature of their living arrangements. It wasn’t fair. He couldn’t do anything properly any more. Not even the one relationship that actually mattered to him.</p><p>“OK,” Merlin said eventually. “And you said…?”'</p><p> </p><p>Or, in which Arthur's estranged father dies and his not-entirely-well-meaning stepmother decides to set him up at the funeral, not realising that Arthur is happily settled down with a bloke called Merlin. Morgana disapproves, and Merlin can speak French.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I actually wrote this as part of a longer piece, but I didn't ever finish it. I think it works quite well as a standalone one-shot type thing; not everything is resolved, but THAT'S LIFE.
> 
> I added the second chapter for a bit more resolution, and also because slightly self-loathing Morgana is fun to write.

Arthur was just opening the front door to his flat after a rather tedious day at work when the phone started ringing, almost sending him into cardiac arrest. That would be ironic, he thought. Lobbing his bag onto the sofa, he dashed to the handset, which was lying rather ungracefully by the kitchen sink, and answered it. 

“Hello?” he said tentatively. Only one person ever called at this sort of inconvenient time. 

“Arthur!” cried the voice of his stepmother. He winced. 

“Hi, Nimue,” he said. “How are you?” 

“Fine, fine,” she replied. “I’m not here to talk about how I am, though! I’ve got some good news!”

Good news was always subjective when his stepmother was involved. He sighed. He knew he was probably not going to like this. 

“Enlighten me,” he said. 

“Well,” she continued, seemingly oblivious to his lack of enthusiasm. “Your father’s funeral is in two weeks, yes?” 

“Yeah, as far as I know. Why?”

“I have a plan.”

Oh God. This couldn’t get much worse. He sat down at the kitchen table. 

“Go on,” he prompted reluctantly. 

“Don’t sound so bored! It’s just… well, Arthur, to put it bluntly, you’re not a child any more.”

“Well observed.”

“Don’t be cheeky. You’re proving me wrong. Anyway, you’re a grown man now, and I personally think that it’s time you started acting like one.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean, Arthur. You’re twenty-six and you live with your friend from university. It’s not exactly going to get you a girlfriend, is it? And it’s definitely not going to get you a wife.”

Jesus Christ. He was not having this conversation with his stepmother. 

“Maybe I don’t want to get married! Maybe I’m concentrating on my career at the moment.” That would make her go away. She had always cared a little too much about her stepchildren’s careers. Arthur wondered if this tedious trait might have been avoided if she'd ever had any children of her own, but pushed that thought aside. The thought of people around his age being genetically and biologically related to the woman was just too disturbing to entertain. 

“I’m glad that you’re so motivated, but really, some things are more important than that,” his stepmother chided. Well, that was unusual.

“Really?” he said, taken aback. 

“Yes, Arthur, really. Now, I don’t like to be disrespectful, but if there’s one thing that I hope I’ve taught you, it’s to look on the bright side.”

Yeah. That’s what she called it. 

“This funeral will obviously be a sad occasion,” she continued. “But it’ll also be an opportunity. Think of all the people your father met while he was living there. There’s bound to be a few eligible young ladies - ”

Well, that was quite enough, thank you. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, I think I heard the doorbell. I’m going to have to hang up now, Nimue. Thanks for calling, though. I’ll give you a ring soon. Bye!” he hurried, and hung up before she could protest. 

That was the best way to deal with his stepmother, he thought. In short, sharp doses. Any more than that would be a definite overdose. 

But seriously. His stepmother was trying to set him up? At his own father’s funeral? Since when did that qualify as ‘good news’?

He often wondered how he’d turned out at least relatively normal. His father was a compulsive liar without a conscience and his stepmother was about as neurotic and Conservative as you could get without actually keeling over. 

There was no way he was explaining this to Merlin. 

-

Get married? Why on Earth would he want to do that? Sometimes, he really didn’t understand his stepmother. She was all Conservative values and expensive perfume and charity shops and twenty five years ago, and he had no idea whether she realised that she occupied no place in the real world any more. Someone would have to tell her before she suggested marriage to some poor soul less accustomed to dealing with her strange ideologies. 

He drummed his fingers on the table in irritation in the way that his stepmother always told him not to, and decided to make a cup of tea. It was at times like this that he wished he were a smoker. Chronic respiratory unrest and yellow fingers seemed a small price to pay for a more dramatic way of relieving stress, although he had to admit, the fear of imminent death did put him off the idea. No-one took you seriously when you said you needed a cup of tea. And you certainly couldn’t announce that you needed a shag in the middle of a business meeting. It just wasn’t the done thing. 

He walked over to the kettle and was about to press the button when he realised there was no water in it. Sod the cup of tea, then. The sink was on the other side of the kitchen. He sighed and sat down again. He’d have to have a chat with Merlin about leaving enough water next time. 

Marriage, though. Really? It was something he’d never understood, and would never understand. It was just arguments over the Radio Times and wistful glances at people who weren’t your spouse, wasn’t it? He quite liked the idea of avoiding that for as long as possible. It wasn’t even the domesticity that repulsed him. He liked that. He liked being brought a cup of tea in the morning and quibbling over which programme to watch and making up afterwards because going to bed angry just wore you out. Marriage would put an end to that. It was like domesticity gone wrong. A band of metal and a piece of paper suddenly turned you into a monster. As far as he was concerned, marriage was signified by two struggles; the struggle of trying to put off sex for as long as possible, and the even more arduous struggle to actually have sex with the person you’d professed to love forever more, until death did you part, without vomiting from boredom.

No, he was quite happy as he was. He'd feel guilty but he knew Merlin felt the same; he always shuddered at mentions of weddings and he never watched 'Bridezilla' or 'Don't Tell The Bride', even when he was off work with the 'flu. 

He supposed it was the utterly unromantic nature of cementing your love with a document that botherd him the most. He had always displayed affection with kisses and hands in various places, not some rusty wedding ring that left green on your finger.

Just as he was contemplating filling the kettle up after all, he heard the turn of the key in the lock and prepared himself for a lengthy discussion about kettle politics.

-

“Should I leave and come in again?” Merlin asked, closing the door slowly behind him and raising one eyebrow in the way that had always slightly irritated Arthur. 

“What do you mean?” 

“You look like you could quite happily kill someone.”

“Oh. Sorry. There wasn’t any water in the kettle.” 

Merlin folded his arms. 

“I’m hoping there’s more to it than that,” he said. “Otherwise I’m scared that I’ve been living with a child for the past four years.”

Arthur chewed his lip before replying. He had to phrase this delicately, sugar-coat it. 

“There was something else,” he said slowly, pausing again. Oh God. There really was going to be no other option. It would have to be the blunt approach.  
“I’m pretty sure my stepmother is going to try and set me up at the funeral.” 

The silence that followed was really rather uncomfortable. He’d done it this time. He should have just told Merlin months ago that his parents were completely oblivious to the true nature of their living arrangements. It wasn’t fair. He couldn’t do anything properly any more. Not even the one relationship that actually mattered to him. 

“OK,” Merlin said eventually. “And you said…?”

“I said that I didn’t want her to,” Arthur replied truthfully. Well, it was half true. He’d implied it, hadn’t he?

“But you didn’t say why?” There was a definite hint of irritation in Merlin’s voice. It wasn’t promising. 

“Did I have to?” 

“It might have helped your case, yes.” 

Another awkward silence. This was not going well. He would have to try and claw back any empathy he could. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Are you? Really? Or are you just saying that to try and make me less pissed off that your stepmother still thinks you’re straight and available?”

This was definitely turning into an argument that surpassed debates about kettle etiquette. 

“I really am sorry,” Arthur sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. 

He should explain everything. He should explain how he’d made an effort at domesticity that surprised even himself. He should explain how he’d bought that beige sofa on one of those pay monthly plans and didn’t mind when they couldn’t fit it in the living room because it was the principle behind it that was important. He should explain how he was happy to phone his stepmother right now and tell her everything if it would mend things. 

“OK, maybe you are,” Merlin said, unfolding his arms and walking towards the table where Arthur was sitting. He stopped, as though to sit next to him, before thinking better of it and walking over to the kettle instead. “But how sorry?”

“Pardon?” This was starting to sound like a scene from one of the mafia movies that Arthur’s father used to watch when he was off work. 

Merlin picked up the kettle, filled it with water and began to boil it. 

“I mean, are you going to tell her or are you just going to let her think that she can find you some French girlfriend with a family in the fashion business?”

The kettle clicked and Merlin picked up two mugs from the draining board, placing them on the worktop. He reached for the jar of coffee. 

“Do you want a cup?”

“Tea, please.” This wasn’t right. Merlin should be throwing the boiling water in Arthur’s face, not making him a cup of tea. “You don’t sound as angry as I thought you would.” 

Merlin tipped a dessert spoon of coffee powder into one of the mugs and dropped a teabag into the other. 

“I am angry,” he said quietly. “But I don’t see how shouting about it is going to help matters at all.” He poured the water into the mugs and opened the fridge, taking out the milk and pouring it into the cup of tea before putting it back.

“I really am sorry,” Arthur said again, not really knowing how to respond to this. Merlin handed him the cup of tea and sat down in the chair opposite him. “Thanks.” 

Merlin shrugged. 

“We might as well talk about it,” he stated. 

“It?” Did he mean the funeral, his stepmother’s plan or the fact that he’d been lied to for the past few years? It was hard to tell. 

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean.”

“I don’t.” 

“Fine. We might as well talk about what we’re going to do now I’ve discovered that you’ve not exactly been truthful to anyone in recent history. Is that clearer?” The irritation that had been there previously was definitely mutating into full-blown anger, something that Arthur was rather keen to avoid, especially with two cups of scalding liquid in reaching distance. He tightened his grip on his tea.

“I don’t know,” Arthur said. 

Neither of them said anything for a few seconds. Arthur knew that he should just explain why he’d lied, but would that really help? Did explaining something terrible make it any better? Oh, sorry I just murdered your husband, Mrs Brown, but he insulted my choice of jacket… No. It was unlikely. 

“Why did you lie?” Merlin asked. “I mean, you could have just lied to one of us. You could have told me the truth. I would have understood. My family isn’t exactly the most tolerant. Or you could have just told everyone the truth and got it over and done with. It’s not so difficult to just be a human being, is it?” 

He had to explain. Either he told the truth now, or he would lose everything. 

He took a sip of his tea and nearly scalded his oesophagus. 

“It wasn’t that easy,” he began. 

“It’s not meant to be easy,” Merlin interjected. “You’re supposed to do it because it’s the right thing to do, not because it’s easy.”

This was going to be tricky, but it was necessary, he could see that now. He steeled himself and continued.

“It wasn’t that easy, and maybe it’s because I’m a rubbish human being and I care too much about what other people think, but whatever the reason was, it was difficult.”

Well, that was complete gibberish. Merlin raised an eyebrow. Arthur clenched his fists. He had to articulate. 

“Sorry. I’m not very good at this. If I was, I probably would have done it the first time round.” 

Merlin stared intently at his coffee. 

“You haven’t met my sister, have you?” Arthur continued. “If you had, you’d get a firsthand glimpse of why I didn’t tell the truth. Oh, and you’d have to meet her fiancé too, and sit in the foyer of their American mansion – I think it’s a listed property, or whatever the equivalent of that is over there – and drink the champagne that she imports specially from France.”

“I don’t really see your point,” said Merlin. 

Arthur sighed. Why was this so bloody difficult? He had no problem pitching ideas in business meetings or debating the finer points of company finance or interviewing particularly difficult clients. 

“Basically, my family is pretty much perfect. My sister is basically a millionaire who sits on a pile of money and counts it every day, making sure she’ll have enough to bring up a perfect, genetically superior nuclear family. My father was a businessman and probably about as rich as my sister, and my stepmother has raised and looked after all of them. And I work in an office for a local newspaper and live with my boyfriend in a rented flat in a relatively grotty area of Essex, having rejected the offer of running a multi-billion dollar corporation for ethical reasons. I lied because at least if I had the prospects of one day being able to live the life that my father wanted for me, at least I had some prospects.” 

There was yet another short silence. Well, he’d said his piece. He couldn’t really do much more. This was probably it. Oh God, this was it. He’d have to pack his things and find a hotel. This was definitely not how he’d imagined his Friday evening would be.

“Your sister lives thousands of miles away from her family,” Merlin said suddenly. “Your father – no offence – was a philanderer who left his family to bugger off to France, and your stepmother let it all happen. I don’t think you’ve got a lot to worry about on that front.”

Merlin held his coffee and ran his index finger around the rim of the cup. Arthur didn’t really know what to say to that. In between insulting his family and reassuring him of his worth, Merlin had definitely made a good point. 

No-one was perfect. So why bother trying? 

His sister had sucked her thumb until she was twelve and he had once caught his cousin masturbating to a picture of their schoolteacher. 

There was only one thing he could do. It wasn’t going to be the easiest thing to explain to his stepmother, but it was the right thing to do. 

Merlin was right, as usual. The things you had to do weren’t always the most pleasant. 

“You can come if you want,” he eventually said, almost inaudibly. 

Merlin looked at him quizzically. 

“To a funeral?” he questioned. “I’m not sure they’re usually ‘plus-one’ events.” 

“You’d be more than a plus-one, though. Sort of… part of the family. A really new part that freaked my stepmother out.” 

“Like the crazy old uncle who sits in the corner and mutters about sheep?” Merlin was almost smiling. That was definitely a good sign. 

“Yeah. Sort of. Except I’d actually want you to be there.” 

Merlin didn’t respond. Oh, for goodness’ sake. He was making an effort here. 

“Please say you’ll come,” he continued. “Going to a foreign country is going to be difficult enough. I don’t speak a word of French. And I don’t think I can sit through the entire service while my family pretends that my father was some sort of saint without some sort of moral support.” 

There was a tiny, hesitant pause before Merlin spoke again. 

“I did do French at A Level,” he said, and the sort-of-smile had turned into a proper grin. 

Arthur had him now. 

“But I’m not going to be the crazy old uncle,” Merlin added. “And I’m not going to be your flatmate.” 

“OK. My stepmother is going to have a heart attack.” 

“You’ll all be in the funeral spirit anyway.”

The silence that followed was actually almost comfortable, to Arthur’s astonishment. He’d got through it. Only one more lie to un-tell now. 

He had no idea how he would explain this to his stepmother. Or Morgana, who had been trying to set him up with some woman called Gwen at work for the better part of a year. 

He hoped it would be worth it. 

“What do you want to do for dinner?” he asked.


	2. Two Months Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter assumes that Arthur dragged Merlin along to France for the funeral and everyone realised the true nature of their relationship. It's kind of a resolution to the largely unresolved first chapter.

It was 2am when Morgana eventually drifted into a fitful, dissatisfying sleep. Her dreams were empty and didn’t seem to belong anywhere, images of blurred faces and words that didn’t make any sense. That was the catch with family holidays. She always felt afraid to dream, knowing that her stepmother was asleep in the next room. What if her stepmother could read her thoughts? When Morgana was five years old, Nimue had instinctively known that it was her who had pushed Danny Philips over in the playground, and not Susie Lamb as she’d tried to claim. She realised that she’d become accustomed to sleeping alone in a mansion, and for some reason, the thought disturbed her. She buried it and thought about other things. 

She had no idea why her stepmother had whisked them all off to France. Morgana, Arthur and Merlin. Especially Merlin. 

She awoke, bleary eyed, at 7am. There was no point trying to get back to sleep. The sleep she’d manage wouldn’t be worth the effort. No, she’d be far better off with a cup of ridiculously strong coffee and a good dose of daytime television. It would be in French, of course, but what else were subtitles for? She made her way down the corridor of rooms – it wasn’t dissimilar to her mansion, now that she thought of it, although clearly on a far smaller and less luxurious scale. It seemed far cosier and the paintings on the walls that had seemed so vulgar yesterday now seemed homely and strangely familiar. She wondered what it said about her that she felt more at home in a rented gite than in her actual abode as she padded into the kitchen. She had been hoping for a few hours on her own, a few hours to contemplate the situation she found herself in and eat copious amounts of toast in front of a television which whispered to her anxiety with alien syllables from foreign tongues. 

In a house with three other people, she should have known better. 

Merlin was sitting at the kitchen table, fully dressed and washed – she could tell because he smelt pleasantly but slightly of aftershave – and reading the newspaper. It was in French, she noticed, which was impressive. She made a mental note to congratulate her brother on obtaining a bilingual boyfriend before realising that her stepmother would kill her if she made it appear that she in any way approved. 

Merlin noticed her and put down the paper, blushing ever so slightly, and picked up the white china mug next to him. It contained very dark coffee, Morgana realised. She was beginning to find it difficult to dislike the man. 

“I’ve just made a pot,” he said suddenly, surprising her. She hadn’t expected to hear his voice. He obviously realised how awkward the situation was. “I was planning on drinking it all myself, but it looks like you could do with some.”

She found herself smiling, and quickly swallowed, making sure no trace of emotion was evident on her lips. 

“I’m all right actually,” she said. “Thanks though.” 

He blinked and looked away. He seemed hurt. Now she just felt guilty. 

Why did she have to do this? Because her stepmother disapproved? Her stepmother disapproved of trains running on Sundays and microwave meals. That wasn’t a good enough reason. 

She had to make him feel welcome. He was nice enough, and she knew all too well how it felt to be on the outside looking in. 

She took a deep breath. 

“Actually, I will have some,” she said finally. “I’ve had a completely shit night.” 

Merlin grinned and pushed his chair to the side slightly, just enough that she could sit down. She poured herself some coffee – she wasn’t in the mood for adding milk, that would just dilute its effect – and took the seat next to him. 

“If it’s any consolation, it can’t have been as shit as mine,” said Merlin. 

“Oh, believe me, it was,” she laughed. “It was beyond shit. It was… well, I don’t think there’s a word for it. But it basically involved a recurring dream of my fiancé telling me that I was selfish and spineless and a complete idiot.” 

Merlin nodded slowly and took another sip of coffee. 

“If you reverse the roles, that pretty much sums up my night,” he replied. “Although sadly, in my case, it wasn’t a dream.”

“You said all that to Arthur?” Morgana gasped, half from disbelief and half from admiration. “Wow. Why?”

“Because it’s true.” 

He looked sad. He probably didn’t want to talk about it. But she wanted to hear. 

“Why?” she pushed. 

Merlin took a long time arranging the pages of the newspaper so they were completely aligned with one another and put it down on the table so the edges of each page were parallel with the edge of the kitchen table. 

“I’m guessing you had no idea I existed until yesterday,” he said eventually. 

“No,” Morgana acknowledged. “But he was just scared. Mum’s not exactly up-to-date with these things.”

“And that’s the problem,” he explained. “He expects me to just turn up, completely unannounced, take abuse from his stepmother and be ignored by everyone else just because he wants me to. It’s not really what I’d call fair.”

Shit. Maybe he had had a worse night than her. 

“That sucks,” she offered. She didn’t really know what else to say. She’d never had to comfort her brother’s boyfriends before. She wondered how many he’d had and if he’d treated them all this badly. She was surprised Merlin was still here. 

“Yeah.”

“So what did you tell him?”

“Like I said, that he was a selfish arsehole with a yellow streak that practically glows in the dark and no respect at all for anyone else.”

“Owch. Well done, I mean. I guess he needed to hear it.”

“Yeah. I guess so.”

She ran her index finger around the rim of her mug and contemplated marching into her brother’s room and giving him a proper telling off, but decided against it. Merlin looked too defeated to make it worthwhile. He looked as though he’d given up. 

She didn’t want him to give up.

She barely knew him, but he made her brother happy and he had great hair and spoke French and was good at Maths and liked his coffee black and she didn’t want to lose a friend before she’d had a chance to make one. 

“Do you love him?” she asked. 

He looked more than a little taken aback. 

“Why?” he asked cautiously. 

“Do you love him?” she repeated. And I won’t take no for an answer, she thought. 

“Well, yes,” he said. “Obviously.” 

“Why?” she probed. 

“Because I just do,” he answered, irritation creeping into his voice. Bugger. She couldn’t offend him. She just needed to make him realise why he was here. 

“But what do you love about him?” she asked, in a voice that she hoped was kind rather than patronising. 

“I don’t know,” he said. “Just him, I suppose.” 

“So tell him that. He might treat you better.”

“He won’t. He already knows,” said Merlin. “It won’t make any difference. And he wouldn’t say it back because he’d be afraid that your stepmother would find out.” 

Morgana hoped he was assuming the worst. She didn’t want to think of her brother as being quite such a bastard. 

“So take him out somewhere,” she suggested. “How long have you been together? What, is it five years now?”

“Just under six.”

“That’s a stupidly long time to work at something just to end it over some jet-lag fuelled argument. Take him out somewhere – I don’t know where, a restaurant, a museum, anywhere – and tell him that you love him even though he’s a complete twat sometimes and fuck what my stepmother thinks.”

He looked at her blankly, and she started to worry that she’d made a terrible mistake. He opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by the sound of footsteps in the hallway. The kitchen door creaked and Arthur walked in, his hair uncombed and his eyes slightly bloodshot. He’d clearly not got much sleep either. He was lucky he hadn’t ended up on the sofa, Morgana thought.

“Morning,” he said, stifling a yawn. “What are you two gossiping about?”

Morgana and Merlin exchanged glances. 

“Nothing,” Merlin answered. “I was just wondering if you wanted to do something later, maybe.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow. 

“Even though I’m a selfish, cowardly wanker?” 

“Even though you’re a selfish, cowardly wanker.”

Morgana recognised her cue and took it. 

“I’ll leave you to it,” she said. “I have to have a shower anyway. See you later.” 

She stood up to leave, and as she reached the door she turned around and winked at Merlin, who rolled his eyes in return. 

She’d made a friend. And she hadn’t even had to bribe him. 

As she walked down the hallway, she heard her stepmother snore and thought of all she stood for; the past, intolerance, their unhappy childhoods. The snoring was drowned out suddenly by a peal of delighted laughter from the kitchen and Morgana grinned. She liked what that stood for a lot more.


End file.
